


Sparks

by DrGaybelGideon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Season 3 compliant, five times and one time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7224505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrGaybelGideon/pseuds/DrGaybelGideon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Frederick Chilton needed Dutch courage to deal with a beautiful semi-stranger and one time he didn't have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notmyyacht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyyacht/gifts), [sackoflemons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sackoflemons/gifts).



Writers are reclusive by nature.  
  
Writers who've been set on fire take it to whole new extremes.  
  
Frederick Chilton swears his heart's thrumming under his skin as loudly as the sudden scream of the doorbell echoing around his house. It's been a week since his housekeeper last dropped his groceries off but she's tactful enough not to use that ridiculous doorbell and he hasn't asked for any more,  _It's a trap!_ his mind screams, and it used to be a lot easier to drown out that little voice, to stop the pathetic awful justified tremor in his fingers, they're not even his own fingers any more, some poor organ donor's skin is stretched over his thin tendons.  
_Perhaps if he'd listened to his gut about Gideon and the others he might still have it._  
No. This isn't his fault, unexpected visitors were the reason for his horrors. He didn't gut himself, didn't frame himself for murder and he certainly didn't burn off his own damn skin, so he only moves towards the slab of wood he hasn't moved in a month at a second too-loud ring.   
  
He doesn't open it now. This is unexpected, this is wrong. This isn't Freddie and isn't nurses and even journalists have the common courtesy to let him know in advance before dropping in so he can paint an acceptable portrait on the scarred canvas of his face, there's a man's silhouette on the other side of the peephole in his door when he tentatively presses his face to it.  
They were all men. Only one was as tall and broad as this one and   
  
It's not Dolarhyde, his vision finally confirms after a minute he swears he can't breathe. The realization's obvious, so obvious that he's filled with the irrational urge to bite the end of his tongue for betraying him, for letting out a sigh of relief at the stupid blatant knowledge that a dead man is still dead and worse, the noise possibly betraying him to the man outside.  
  
The man's outline sharpens further with his pulse's return to normal, which unexpectedly spikes it again. Frederick's fingers fingers clutch the doorknob for balance.  
  
The man outside certainly isn't Dolarhyde. He's blonde. And handsome. And bigger.  
He's... not at home still, he decides after another strangely breathless moment.  
The reason for the second thrum of his pulse in his ears couldn't be more different, it's bringing a lot of warmth back to his bloodless face but no-  _no?-_ he's still not aware of the man's intentions.  
The uphill battle to convince himself he actually cares about the intentions of a strong gorgeous man becomes a thousand times harder when he shifts his hips from side to side and his jeans shift. Frederick's a letch, a peeping Tom with eyelashes grazing the keyhole and he's an awful person and- _and?_ \- and it's immoral and he himself- _isn't wearing makeup._  
  
The third attempt at convincing himself works. Within a second the sight of an attractive blonde man on his doorstep is a nightmare rather than something from a dream, and Frederick fights the sudden and irrational urge to crawl back into bed.  
He could have become familiar with a face like that once. Paired blond hair with his own glossy dark, slid his body under the other man's huge plaid coated arms and looked like he belonged there to anyone who looked. His own features would have looked beautifully angular contrasted with the man's square jaw, and the slight flicker of interest in his crotch is doused by the sudden sour envy making his stomach sick.   
The man leaves thirty or so seconds later, sparing a rueful look up at the property as if he knows who lived there, he could do, the newspapers probably leaked it after his second book came out and of course, of course he was a journalist, sent to snoop around for details of a third.  
  
  
  
He's being ridiculous, the whiskey in his hand taunts. It shouldn't be on his mind, it's been hours.  
The slightest hint of hips and ass swaying under loose jeans wouldn't be that hypnotic if he ever went outside and wasn't so lonely. He's probably leching over an unsuspecting Mormon half his age or next door's lost pizza delivery man.  
A delivery boy; the jeans he ordered shouldn't have been here for another week but it's the only explanation bar payment, journalism or misguided higher calling that would bring an attractive man to his door, all thoughts of long lost college boyfriends drowned out by the fact they were all married years ago. All older. All brunettes. All now straight.  
  
  
Two more whiskies alert Frederick to the fact that there **was** something familiar about him, he decides in a tone of finality, and that Hannibal Lecter was probably overcompensating for a minuscule penis all along. Third book sorted! The humming end credits of an ignored film aren't exactly shedding any light on the situation but they're good ambient noise, dozing off to noise, jerking off to noise, he notes because he's drunk and he's bored and imagining the man naked for identification purposes hasn't exactly had the required result and _he was going to deliver you some form of package-_  
Frederick laughs out loud, sudden and sharp in the darkness, and it's only then he realizes precisely how drunk he is.  
It's an amateur college student line. The famous Frederick Chilton snark so praised in his writings is the kind of dry wit that alcohol doesn't aid. He will, however write the remark down if it's still funny in the morning, and he's trashed like an amateur college student because a pretty man turned up outside his house and he didn't invite him in for coffee or sexual favors, so why not?  
 _Coffee or sexual favors?_  
Not his best chat up line, he reflects, but it's blunt and to the point and marginally less self-depreciating than the other tatters of 'well done' one-liners floating around his head.  
He'll use it on the next poor lost soul on his doorstep and hope to God it's not Jack Crawford.


End file.
